War of 2012: American Pride through Canadian Ass Whippings
by DeadAliveManiac
Summary: With the threat of the Mayan Apocalypse bearing down on the world and, more importantly, America, an historian's work recounts the trials, triumphs, tragedies, and other words that start with tr against the oppressive Canadians. Written in commemoration of three years of collaboration with Zivon96 who, coincidentally, is writing his own "historical" perception of the War of 2012.


**The War of 2012: American Pride through Canadian Ass Whippings**

 **By:** **Doctor-Barber, Her Majesty, Lord Protector, Commander-in-Chief, The Honorable Judge, His Holiness-Pastor-Reverend-Father-Rabbi-Imam-Saint, Five-Star General, Tsar-King-Emperor-Chief for Life, Master Chef, Principal, Coach, Heavyweight Champion of the World, Researcher of Early Modern European and American Weapons *Non-Gunpowder** **DeadAliveManiac** **Ph.D., M.D., O.C.D., A.D.D. & A.D.H.D., S.T.D., P.T.S.D., B.S., A.S.S., S.E.X.**

Alright, gather 'round, boys and girls, and fine ass ladies especially, grandad's been drinking and this hangover is only going away with some stories. Now, there used to be a time called 2012. There was more shit being flung around than a chimp in a wind tunnel. A black guy got re-elected into office for the first time, some other shit happened, but the biggest thing happening was the Mayan Apocalypse. You know shit was a big deal when we had to break out our Googles to spell those two big words and even more so if we studied what it was. Apparently, the Mayan Calendar ended on that year in December and everyone was terrified the world was going to end. Goddammit, as if Mexicans haven't given us enough issues, now they quit mowin' our lawns AND end the world! Us God-fearing, awesome American citizens began to get hysterical with fear, like an alter boy going to Bible camp. So much so, we decided to pack up our cheeseburgers, beer, and heart medications and took a page out of those filthy, job-snatching, shifty-eyed Mexicans' books. But, we couldn't read Spanish so it was back to the drawing board til we came up with our plan. We hauled it North of the border to Canada like there was a week-long NASCAR Lollapalooza event, where we thought we'd be safe with the soundest of logic from our best Christian scientists. They figured, like how a tub rises with moonshine, if we were at the tippy top of the world, nothing bad could hit us. Unfortunately, those Godless Canucks had to play hardball like getting cockblocked at the family reunion.

They got more pissed off than Skeeter when you catch him balls-deep in a squealing hog without knocking on the barn door. They were all like, "Whoa, sorry, you guys got your democracies and freedoms, eh? We don't want that shit here in Canada, a nice, clean, safe, terrorist country. Sorry, eh?"

So, naturally, we responded in the American way of, "Oh, yeah? Well, if we can't have it, no one can!"

So, that winter, our troops shot into Canada like Jesus' foot up the anal canal of transgender Muslim rabbi holding a copy of Mein Kampf and Karl Marx's communist bullshittery. Now, I don't know if you youngin's have ever been, but Canada is fucked in the winter. It's colder than an ice sickle of shit, it a metric fuck ton of snow, and there's more ice everywhere than in your average Kentucky backwoods shed. Well, your about sunk up to your tits in snow, freezing your ass off and not sure where you're going, but it only got worse for our first invasion. Much, MUCH worse.

See, Canadians don't fight the conventional wars we've seen in history. Those cowards don't fight fair. Not only did they force our hand into an invasion and use some sort of Dances with Wolves rain dance for snow magic bullshit, now they sent out one of their most elite army corps to deal with one of the first few batches of infantry to set foot in Canada. The legends of Canada. No, not those Mounties, those guys are fucking pussies. The goddamn Canadaian Grizzly Bear Cavalry.

Now, the Canadians weren't the issue, it was the fucking bears. These goddamn grizzlies were pissed! Like you just broke up with them on your one year anniversary after you knocked them up and admitted to fuckin' there sister and callin' them a whore. They were biting and clawing at exposed heads, the snow too deep for us to tactically retreat to a more opportune area. Some of the US soldiers decided, "Fuck this. Hey, Maple Shits, let's play Whack-A-Mole!"

So they duck down in the snow, out of grizzly reach and the Canadians themselves are unarmed, or so they thought. These cheap dick-fucks started lobbing the premiere of Canadian military technology into those icy trenches: snowballs. Now, I know what you're thinking, "Grandpa, that's fucking retarded! Seriously, it's just a snowball, what's the worst that could happen? They pack it with pebbles and pee on it?"

First, I say, shut your son-of-a-whore mouth before I beat it shut, you ungrateful shitstain. Second, these weren't regular snowballs. They were basically hand grenades forged in ice shells filled with jagged ice. When they exploded, it was basically like a bong blew up in your face to lethal effect. So awful was the slaughter that, when more forces drudged through the killing fields a few days later, the honorless Canucks left sticky notes on the corpses, which read, "Sorry."

Not only had they killed our Nation's finest, they were insulting us. Payback was a bitch to come.

Now, this is where a lot of soldiers did what is known in the military as "tactically shitting yourself." We drew our lines back along the border, leaving fast enough to get there but not so fast as to look like retreating pussies. The bear cavalry shows up once again but, as soon as they cross, weirder shit began to happen than that time Jim-Bob convinced me it was okay for dudes to kiss if our eyes were closed. The bears got all Bambi-legged and stumbling around, we barely had any snow this side of the border, and the Canadians higher body temperature meant they were cooking themselves in this "heat". So, our boys were like, "Lol, totally meant to do that," and began to beat the Canadian forces that encroached on God-given American soil back over the border. Another thing that drove some ballsy Canucks back over was that we apparently were hurting their feelings with how rood we were. Seriously, we could have won the war so much quicker if we just stubbed their toes and called 'em a fag.

So, at that point, spring began to roll around in 2013, we'd forgotten why we were fighting but we were damn sure there was a good reason somewhere along the line, just like Iraq and Afghanistan. Canadians turned out to be only a poor-weather army, bigger cowards than a Russian whenever he sees fifty stars in the night sky before emptying his red, turnip-rotten bladder. We were kicking more ass than a field goal kicker at a doggy style contest. We pushed the fuckers almost to Alaska on the Western Front, the East and Central pinching in on key cities like Ottawa, Toronto, and Quebec, which Canada didn't have a problem with us attacking, for whatever reason.

Spring turned to summer and anywhere you looked was battlefield littered with the rotten carcasses of Mounties, professional hockey players, bears, and beavers. Quebec went down like the preacher's daughter on prom night, they just said something like, "Sacrebleu," and surrendered like a bunch of wine-drinking, boy-kissing Frenchies. We didn't even set foot in the city, either. Anyway, it was just the capital of Ottawa and the other city left by September, Canada was totally overrun and on the verge of losing. Then, like a herd of sheep when Rusty goes to the barn, it all got quiet one day. You couldn't even hear a Canadian apologize in the distance or utter, "Eh," it was so quiet. Then, leaves blanketed the ground, winds rolled down and chilled our troops to the bone like they just had a finger inserted first-knuckle deep into their asses. Fall had come.

Like winter, fall in Canada is shittier than outhouse snorkeling. It's cold, wet, and no one wants to be there, kind of like a Protestant whore at this rate. Then, in the near-freezing temps, rumbling can be heard by every single infantry man all over Canada. It was a massive counter-attack and they were done fucking around. We learned then and there how tough Canadians were. Their casualties were very low, all thanks to their Satanic medical practices and finances of it. We quickly realized how outnumbered we were. Right outside of Ottawa, a massive vat of boiling hot maple syrup, some thousands of gallons big (don't ask me how our boys missed it, those Canadians probably did it all in a night), and they shouted something like, "How about you Americans warm up, eh?"

Now, that sounds like a badass one-liner, but mind you these are Canadians, so it probably came off with a French accent and gay. Needless to say, however, was that every troop surrounding Ottawa was scalded to death and hardened into maple syrup death statues. Like, picture those bodies they found in Italy caked in volcano shit. It was like that, only tastier and more of a fucking mess. The gloves came off, the apologies went unspoken, and eh's got swapped out for ball-shrivelingly terrifying war cries. All from the northern most fringes of Canada, they had been planning for the cold to return them their powers like a Jew waiting to get his change back from a soda machine. They descended on our troops with their best of the best: the Canadian Polar Bear Cavalry.

It was full-fledged panic but our boys just tactically shit themselves and strategically B-lined for the border to regroup or something honorable. But, the Canucks were fixated on being a bunch of dicks and killing them all. All along the Canadian border, from Victoria to Brunswick, was a line of Mounties, other contingents of bear cavalry, and the previously unseen Canadian Beaver Artillery regiement. Again, that sounds retarded, but those fuckers could beat you more shitless with their tail than any laxative could, and they bit like motherfuckers. So, basically, we're fucked in the middle harder than an Asian girl in a black threesome.

Now, at this rate, we're getting sick and goddamn tired of Canada's dishonorable shit. Starting a war we didn't want for whatever reason no one remembers, killing us for no good reason while we invaded them, and pulling more crazy shit out of their hats than JFK when he took his top hat off, it had to stop. The President ordered Canada to back off of our surrounded forces or, if they attacked them, we'd carpet bomb their shit harder than Aladdin with a dynamite belt on his flying carpet. Basically, for about a month, no one moved a muscle, we just sat in the snow and waited it out. Then the war got sneakier than Michael Jackson in a child's hospital.

Now, the Canadians came up with a dirty plan to destroy our capital like they did 200 years ago. They formed an elite (and I say elite in the same manner I use words like special ed or alternative lifestyle) squad of soldiers: the Brock Unit. They had one tough job, though: get over the border and destroy the White House, the following chaos giving them a chance to end the war in the winter. However, they made one slight mistake. They went through Detroit.

Now what took place was not a battle, nor was it planned. It was simply the circle of life, hakuna matata if you will, of Detroit. If you're the only cracker in the box, you're gonna get capped. One thousand men go through the ghetto of Detroit, oh, sorry, that should say the ghetto that is Detroit, only one came out. He was promptly caught in Lansing for trying to order contraband at a bar (Canadian draft beer). He blubbered some polite shit to us, basically calling us the best nation on Earth and converted to Jesus on the spot.

Now, we thought, "Oh, you wanna play that dirty shit? Alright, we're going for the urethra this time!"

Now, our plan was a lot more ingenious. We needed the closest we could get to Canadians here in America, have them infiltrate Ottawa, and destroy it from within. Who, you may ask, was up for the job? Well, dumbass, it was obviously Californians. Aside from being completely lazy, pretentious assholes who do nothing but whine and get high on weed and their own farts all day, they were nearly identical in demeanor, socialism, and mannerisms. So, we drop them into Ottawa and they quickly integrate into that society. The only thing we didn't take into account is Californians are more fucking useless than a fat camp for Nigerians. They were all like, "Oh, this is such a place of culture. And socialized society that works, it's Heaven. Lol, #betrayal." Basically, a cold war ensued for about a month, all because we relied on those pissing Californians for once and realized why we never rely on those dipshit liberal pussies. That's where grandad comes into play.

See, neither the American government nor the Canadian regime wanted to meet to make terms. We were perfectly reasonable, but they were all like, "Lol, no, you guys are big meany heads and we don't want to talk to democratic good guys. Soon, we will be in your base, killin' ur d00dz!111!ONEONEONE!11"

And we were all like, "Well, you guys are pussies who will only guilt trip us and your socialist bullshit will not fly so long as we fly the Red, White, and Blue."

Basically, no one on the political spectrum wanted to meet anyone, like my bitch of an ex-wife when its her turn to watch the kids. So, they decide it should be left up to their finest in non-political affiliations. I had been writing the events of the war since the first bear shat anywhere but the woods in military history, I was chosen as I was deemed the most level-headed, ingenious diplomat we had to offer. I mostly passed since I could spell most words, had at least a middle school education, and didn't use racial slurs in my speech that often.

The Cafucks, on the other hand, chose the most hardass, unapologetic bastard they could get their grimy, syrup-sticky hands on. A guy they called Zivon96. He'd only apologized once in his life, and that was to get out of the most severe punishment you could get in Canada for murder: 1 week in jail. So, our meetings were set, I was prepped, and I squared off with Canadian Stalin in the summer of 2013, almost a year and a half after the war mysteriously began.

Now, I won't lie, this Canadian was a hardass. He didn't bend to my will like an unconscious gymnast nor did he take any bullshit. He set in stone what his demands were and I only accepted based on if he accepted mine in exchange. We met, the towering bastard wreaking of maple leaves and cheap vineyards. We decided the best country would go first.

My first demand was that Nickleback must stay in his country at all times, never letting them to even fly over American airspace as well. He agreed. I thought I had him by the balls now. His first term was a brutal one I'd hope I'd call dibs on first. He countered that America had to keep Justin Beiber in our country, he was no longer allowed to live in Canada. I cursed under my breath, this sticky bastard was pretty slick. I accepted, only on the pretense that rotten produce and food in general would sell out before his shows so that he may be pelted with it, so we would waste less food.

His next term was that we keep democracy or, as he called it, "oil-swilling politics" out of his country. I laughed. His loss. I agreed and, just to sweeten the bargain, I told him they keep socialism out of ours. And I further proposed an idea to keep that part of the treaty intact. We Americans knew a thing or two about keeping things out of our country, whether it be people, ideology, or facts. All of which could be stopped by a wall. He laughed at the wall proposal, asking if Canada would pay for it. I straightened him the fuck out, telling him making another country pay for a wall we build is fucking retarded. But, maybe, their socialized health care could pay for it. He laughs, crossing his arms and saying maybe we should adopt that system to help pay as well. I tell him to fuck off, we Americans will not tolerate change, no matter how relevant or necessary.

I was up to bat again, and I hit him with that they must keep hockey north of the border at all times. The weird bastard happily accepts, on the condition that I admit the best American hockey players have all been Canadians. I agree, I mean, it's a fact. Like, who's the best at the Special Olympics? Duh. He says the other condition to accepting my term is that we keep football in America. Stupid shit, that's already a given, and I didn't even realize you bear fuckers had it, too.

He took the next turn instigate a separate chart system for music in Canada, since all we had was shitty pop songs, according to him. Being the smartass I was, I agreed, only if music that was ever considered popular is now banned in Canada. No Beatles, no Led Zeppelin, no AC/DC, none of it. I could see the syrup in his veins run cold, he was trapped in a corner of his own making. He said his people had rights to that type of music, they were formerly British. As were mine, I replied. His Canadian pride too much to back down from, he had no choice but to accept.

Trying to earn his side in my bidding, I offered, despite the embargo that would follow, that we keep a constant, steady supply of maple syrup from Canada into America, bolstering their economy and the quality of our waffles. And, in exchange, I would allow his country to keep American founded businesses, such as McDonald's. He ate that shit up like a dog at sausage-flavored, peanut-butter-filled crap factory. But he says that, to ensure the Canadian economy, a fair tax will be placed on the importation of their syrup. What's more, the war devastated their maple forests being decimated in the war, lowering the amount of syrup they could even produce for themselves.. How could I turn such a minute offer down? When has taxes ever been an issue in American history, ever?

Finally, our last terms came up, bringing about a culture clash of shit neither of us cared about what the other had to say. He wanted the phrases "eh" and "sorry" trademarked as official words of Canada, if we used those words we'd have to send something called a stipend to them. Whatever, have your fucking stipe, I said, we never use those words anway. I only agreed since he allowed our trademarked, national words to be "guns" and "terrorist".

Moments from signing the document, he offered me a quill pen and glass of what I assumed to be ink to sign the documents with. However, it was merely maple syrup. I tossed the symbol of the Canadian war mongers aside, producing my own jar of bacon fat to sign my end of the treaty. Thus, the war had come to an end, our cultures once more comfortably divided and ignorant of the others existence.

However, in the aftermath of the treaty, I found myself begrudgingly holding a great admiration for that Zivon96. Having my own ventures planned ahead of me but needing a hard-willed, bargain-driving bastard, I recruited him to join me on my pursuits of glory. Just for old time's sake, he agreed, only if I agreed to do the same for him. Tricky bastard, that's what he truly was. And I agreed. Now, three years later, I'd like to say the two of us set up an empire, but the fucker nags at me to be more polite, saying we've made a republic. And, of all of the Canadians I've met, he's the only one I could stomach being friends with.

Here's to three years of working with one of my best friends: Zivon96. Great writer, good friend, amazing womanizer, and one half of the team that ended the War of 2012.

Wait, what the fuck?! That Canadian bastard! Zivon just released his own tale of the war! War of 2012: American Aggression Held Back by Canadian Ingenuity?! What is that blasphemous bullshit? Oh, that syrup-sucking fucker is dead! He'll be drinking it through a straw by the time I'm through with him!


End file.
